


One Damn Thing

by pagination



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Completely inappropriate humor, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Done for a tdkr-kink prompt. Terrorists are assholes. So are masked vigilantes. John Blake is not an asshole. What he is is a reasonable man, caught between a rock and a hard place. The adjective we're looking for here is SCREWED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Damn Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Porn for the sake of porn. And snark. Porn for the sake of porn and snark. But mostly the snark.

He’s starting to lose his fucking mind.

The cells at Blackgate just aren’t what they used to be, even if you ignore the fact that the people who used to be the prisoners are now the ones playing guards. John’s used to being alone, but there’s alone and then there’s _alone_ , and solitary confinement when Bane’s in charge is a lose-lose situation no matter which way you look at it. Either he’s dead or he’s not dead, and at least if he was dead, he wouldn’t have to look forward to all the pain he’s going to have cracked over his head like an egg whenever Bane gets around to it.

In solitary, all he’s got to look at is the walls, which somebody with a sharpie and a 3rd grade literacy level has scribbled graffiti all over. All he’s got to listen to is silence. He’s got no idea how long he’s been here or what’s been going on, and it’d almost be restful if it wasn’t for the fact that the jackass with the sharpie spelled ‘penis’ wrong. It’s starting to get on John’s nerves in the worst possible way, and when it’s on top of the fact that the unknown artist has the anatomical comprehension of a duck--what the fuck, man, did you never look _down_ when you pissed?--and that Bane’s going to be coming along any second now to squash him like a marshmallow peep, well.

See above, re: loss of fucking mind. 

It’s almost a relief when the door opens and he can get on with the rest of the program.

He manages to say, “ _Finally_ ,” in a way that sounds asshole enough that he can feel he made his point, right before one of Bane’s men punches him in the solar plexus and drops him like a baby. He’s rehearsed all kinds of things to say when people show up to collect him--brilliant things, Joss Whedon Mal Reynolds-level things--but he’s deprived of the chance to say any of them, what with losing the ability to breathe. 

Isn’t that always the way, he reflects bitterly, as two of Bane’s thugs drag him out by his arms and hurry him down the hall. Why does he even bother. 

Being pissed about losing his moment keeps the fear at bay, so he holds onto that around the bend and through the prison, up until he’s dropped flat on his face in what used to be the cafeteria. Concrete is not his friend. Since nobody seems eager to help him up, he rolls over and up, ready to fight on the off chance there’s an opening here that he can exploit.

Except shit, there’s Bane, less than a foot away from him. And then shit, there’s Bane’s hand, grabbing him by the hair. John tries punching him in the gut, but it’s like trying to hit a piano. His fist doesn’t appreciate it at all. He’s not even sure Bane notices. 

 _“John Blake,”_ Bane purrs in that metallic voice, and that scares the crap out of John because there’s no way in hell Bane should even know his name. 

He exercises his right to silence and gets his reward in a lazy, backhanded blow that knocks about 50 points off his IQ and puts his center of balance somewhere in Cleveland. He can taste blood in his mouth, and licks carefully; yup, split lip, too. 

This is going well. 

“Pleased to meet you. And you are--?” he says. It’s lame, but it’s the best he can do when he’s wondering frantically what’s going to happen next. He’s never been this close to Bane. On the television, he looks like a big son-of-a-bitch. In person, John discovers that whoever said the TV puts on ten pounds is a lying sack of shit, because if anything, _reality_ has put on about another foot and 80 pounds of pure muscle. Bane isn’t a man; he’s a fucking disaster.

The blue eyes over the mask crinkle at the corners. It’s creepy, but John can actually tell that he’s smiling. That he’s _pleased_ , which does not fill John with warm fuzzies. The hand in his hair hauls him up until he’s standing on his tip-toes, then yanks him around. For the first time, he sees that there are other men in the room. Not that they matter. Most of them are leaving.

Two of them aren’t. One of them, he recognizes as Bane’s second-in-command, the guy Gordon’s intel identified as Barsad. The other one--

Fuck.

_Batman._

There are all kinds of ways in which this is not a good thing, starting with the fact that Batman is kneeling on the floor with his arms tied behind his back--John can see the ropes, thick ones, wrapped around his upper arms--and ending with the fact that Barsad has his gun pressed against the back of Batman’s head. All things considered, John’s pretty sure this isn’t going to be a good day for either of them.

 _“He has fire in him, your little friend,”_ Bane says to Bruce, rolling the words off his tongue like it’s a private joke between them. _“I wonder -- will it survive what I will do to him?”_ Bane’s other hand slides down John’s cheek and neck, down into the collar of his shirt. If he wasn’t already cold with fear, he’d be an icicle at the deliberate intent of that touch. Bane’s not wearing his gloves, and his fingers feel like they’re burning John’s skin.

He tries to jerk away, but his scalp isn’t willing to get ripped off by the roots. Bane hauls him even closer, until John is pressed back flush against his body. It’s like leaning against an oak tree. Balanced on his toes, there’s no place for him to go. Batman’s eyes are cold and angry--almost as ticked off as John is getting, although he’s pretty sure his own version comes packaged with a bonus dose of extra terror.

“He’s not my friend,” Batman rasps.

“I’m really not,” John says. 

 _“But you are his,”_ Bane says, not paying any attention. His hand yanks John’s head to one side, baring his neck; John flinches as cold metal slides across his skin, the barbs of the mask rasping against his throat. _“Did you think we were not watching? The police officer, the Batman, and the Commissioner. Two birds I have in my hand. I only need one of you to get the last.”_

“Gordon,” says Batman, through gritted teeth.

John feels Bane’s chuckle like an earthquake under the skin. “ _Which will it be?”_ he asks. The hand on his hair lets him go, but only so he can grab John’s arms and pull them back. 

He hears the _snikt_ of metal at the same time the handcuffs slap around his wrists. This isn’t an improvement. Panic races through his veins; even knowing better, his cop instincts object fiercely to this restraint, and he yanks involuntarily against the restraints before forcing himself to stay still. Or rather, to kneel, because Bane’s hand drops like an anvil on his shoulder, and it’s either go down to his knees or lose the arm.

Imminent death. Well, thank God they’re done with pussyfooting around.

“You can forget about getting Gordon through me, so _fuck_ you,” John says as politely as he can. And since he’s willing to spread the sentiment around, adds generously to Barsad, “And you, too. You can both go to hell.”

Batman’s eyes gleam. John meets them in a moment of perfect understanding. One of them will die, and no matter what, the other one will keep his mouth shut. Gordon is the only hope left for Gotham. 

He can hear the scrape of a chair behind him as Bane draws one up to sit. Suddenly, the mask is way too close to his face. There’s the gleam of a knife as big as his forearm, and he closes his eyes--a bullet through the brain would’ve been better, but okay, there are worse ways--and stiffens, preparing himself.

Then he feels icy metal on his chest. There’s a rip and a yank. Then cold air, rushing in to touch his skin. His eyes fly open, disconcerted; metal tickles its way down his chest and stomach to his pants, slips underneath the waistband, and tugs again. Once. Twice. Fabric parts like paper. His pants open, peeling away from his skin to leave him bare and exposed and oh fuck, oh _fuck_ , Bane’s other hand caresses its way down his frozen body to wrap itself around his limp cock and it twitches despite itself, because it apparently doesn’t give a shit about the quality of the program.

 _“Did you think it would be so easy as that?”_ Bane asks, and laughs.

John has a second when his brain has to catch up to his body. His first thought is that Bane has a knife in one hand and his dick in the other and it’s only a matter of time before the two get together. There is not a man alive who would not be scared shitless at this prospect, so when Bane slides the knife back into its sheath, he sags with relief, too distracted with images of what _might_ have happened, he doesn’t pay enough attention to what _is_ happening.

Bane gives him a couple of long, slow strokes. Oh _, hello_ there, says John’s dick, already giddy.

Then John’s brain puts in an extra effort of speed and makes it to the finish line. He meets Batman’s eyes in disbelief and sees in them the immediate future, dark and horrific. Disbelief is replaced by panic, and panic mixes with anger to surge through him. John hurls himself back, away from that hand, to try to stagger to his feet. It’s not the best tactic in the world because his pants will send him sprawling if he runs, but he’ll deal with that when he comes to it; first things first, get the _fuck_ away.

From the corner of his eye he can see Batman jerk, like he wants to help. That’s all he gets though, because a split-second later he’s crashing to the ground, tripped up by a foot around his ankle. 

Barsad is smiling thinly, the prick. Bane is chuckling. John feels a hand close around his upper arm, and then he’s being hauled up easily, like a newborn puppy. He tries to kick out, but he doesn’t stand a chance. The chair creaks. John is hauled bodily to straddle Bane’s lap, his back to the mercenary’s chest, his arms pinned between them. One massive hand closes around his throat, forcing his head up to press his cheek against Bane’s, a mockery of intimacy. 

Honestly, John cannot think of a single scenario in which this does not end up badly for him. Death might turn out to be the preferable alternative. Who knew?

“Sorry to break this to you, but I’m saving myself for marriage,” he says unsteadily, his breath harsh and scraping in his throat and way, way too fast. Bane’s hand slides up his inner thigh on its way to his groin, its calluses scraping against his skin. “It’s a life choice. Can I interest you in a walk on the beach instead? We can hold hands and everything.”

 _“Still defiant,”_ Bane says. _“He is brave, this one. I understand why you and the Commissioner favor him.”_ The amusement in his voice invites them to join in the joke. Somehow, neither of them are laughing. John can see Batman staring at them with hot eyes, rage replacing the cooler anger of before. _“Will he be as fierce when he is begging under me, do you think?”_

Barsad fishes in some pouch on his belt with his free hand, and tugs out something that he tosses to Bane. It catches the light as it flies, metallic, round, before smacking into Bane’s palm. His hand’s absence from his thigh makes goosebumps rise on John’s leg.

“He’s stronger than you think,” Batman growls, his hands clenching and unclenching in fists. 

“Fuck you,” John tacks on, to validate Batman’s faith in him. It’s repetitive, but it’s what he’s got. He can’t see what’s happening behind him, so he fixes his eyes on Batman, who can. Not that it’s easy to read a face that’s wearing a mask, but he’s got nothing else to focus on--

\--and shit, Batman’s eyes are widening. In surprise, maybe. Or--

Bane’s hand closes over his dick again. John jerks, shocked at the sudden warmth, the strength, the stroke, the...

He chokes off a sound a little too late. Bane’s hand is skilled, and way too knowing. And slick. It’s slick. Barsad threw Bane a container of lube. Hysterically, John wonders what the hell kind of terrorist organization has its soldiers carry around _lube_. It’s like an evil, mass murdering, blowing-up-Gotham-for-shits-and-giggles version of the Boy Scouts. Always be prepared. It’s a good motto and pays for itself, apparently, because John’s cock is encouraged by this attention. It hasn’t been getting enough consideration lately, and if John isn’t going to feed it, it’ll take whatever’s offered.

He tries. He really does. He tries to wriggle away, hard enough to do when his arms are pinned and his throat is being held in place by a grip that could crack elephant skulls. He tries to think about crime scenes. About rush hour traffic. About Paula Deen in a G-string. Anything but what’s happening between his legs, in front of Batman, god _dammit_. 

He won’t lie--no, that’s not true, he absolutely will lie if asked the question--but yes, okay, maybe once or twice he imagined Bane doing this, ridden the thrill of fear to just the thrill when the tension that rode him all day needed a little blowing off before he can sleep. But it’s a far cry between fantasy and reality, and this is ugly, this is scary, this is degrading and violating, and he is not turned on. He is absolutely not turned on. Christ on a pogo stick, he is _not turned on_.

 _“He’s passionate, this little one,”_ Bane tells Batman, a purring note in his hollow voice. Humiliation burns John’s face. He hasn’t blushed in years but he can feel the tide of color rising up in his face. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” John says breathlessly. “Purely physiological reaction. Normal response to stimuli. It just proves I’m healthy. Go, me. Yay.”

Bane’s slippery hand releases his cock--it aches, missing the practiced stroke--and moves down, rolling his balls gently between broad, blunt fingers. John hisses and stiffens, but the fingers keep moving down, pressing past his perineum, to dip and 

A finger slides in, forcing its way past his instinctive clench. It burns. John jumps and catches his breath. He can feel the scrape of Bane’s nail inside. 

 _“How far shall I go?”_ Bane asks Batman, conversationally, like he’s asking a question about the weather. _“I see anger in your eyes, my brother. Do you envy me my new toy? Perhaps--”_ and now Bane’s fitting a second finger in, shifting John to do it, Jesus Christ his fingers are as big as the rest of him, John has to bite down hard not to make a sound, “-- _when I am done with him--_ ” and now the fingers are moving, exploring, and oh fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ , John jerks hard as pleasure stabs through him, a stiletto of sensation that reaches every part of him and wrenches out a gasp, “-- _you may have your turn.”_

Satisfaction warms the last few words. Bane has found what he is looking for, and his fingers press against it, ruthless. Electricity races under John’s skin, prickling and humming across nerve endings, and he bucks, horrified, arches his back and _screw_ the hand at his throat because he has to get the hell out of this _right now_.

And he thought he was afraid _before_.

John hears Batman growl deep in his throat, sees Barsad shove hard against the cowled head with his gun in a reminder that aggression will have lethal consequences. He doesn’t have too much thought to spare for that though, because Bane’s hand around his throat is squeezing a little too tightly and the fingers inside him have found a terrible rhythm, just out of sync with his breathing. 

Breathing. Hah. What breathing? Stars explode behind his eyelids, except his eyes aren’t closed. His head spins gently. It keeps him off-balanced, unsettled, and even if he wanted to he couldn’t find a space between the shocks of heat that see-saw through him. They’re like heartbeats coursing fire in the place of blood, stuttering and staggering _need_ through his body with each deliberate, sadistic pulse of those fingers. 

He can’t help himself. He has to make a sound. It’s somewhere between a groan and a cry, strangled thin between Bane’s grip on his throat and his determination not to give the prick the satisfaction. He can’t help the movement of his hips, too, the involuntary press into those burning, curling fingers, and God, if only the earth would open up and swallow him whole right now, because he is _fucking the psycho carpetbagger back_. In front of Batman. Gordon would be _so proud._  

“ _Bane,”_ he hears Batman snarl. 

John knows, he just knows that the guy’s going to do something heroic and self-sacrificing and hopefully smart but probably deeply stupid. Bane is probably counting on it. In fact, listen to him, he’s chuckling again, the bastard. The rhythm inside John changes, jolting him; he closes his fists hard around Bane’s shirt as a wave starts building up inside, aching, swollen, pounding like an incoming tide with each hard flutter against his prostate. 

“Don’t!” he manages to say, though it comes out as a gasp. He can’t help the way it sounds. His eyes open to find Batman’s, meeting their darkening burn. “I can take--” oh shit he can’t, goddammit, he’s a cop, yes he can, “I can take this,” he pants through gritted teeth. “He’s just being a--” Why, he thinks wildly, aren't there any good insults for men that don't involve genitalia, body parts, or bodily functions he'd rather not draw any attention to? “Don’t!”

He’d like to say, _don’t look_ , but he can’t quite take the embarrassment of begging Batman in front of Bane. Somewhere in the confused mess of his mind, there’s the thought that this is probably the wrong thing to be embarrassed about in this situation. 

And then there’s the thought that he should probably have kept his mouth shut, because Bane shifts and says, growly, _“Can you? Let us see.”_

The fingers jerk out, and it feels wrong when they go, like he’s been hollowed out and emptied of something vital. His body tries to keep them in, goddamn the thing, what kind of idiot designed these reflexes anyway, but the ache of lust pauses at least, trembling, but holding where it is instead of growing. 

He has just enough time to think a grateful, _thank you God I swear I will never make fun of celibates again,_ when Bane stands, dragging him up with him, and bends him face down over one of the cafeteria tables.

The cold plastic of the table on bare skin makes him yelp. Bane’s hand presses down on the back of his neck, pinning him in place. John’s head is turned so he can see Batman; the green eyes are practically incandescent now, and what the fuck _he_ has to be pissed off at when John’s the one who’s--

 _Oh_ , he thinks numbly, realizing the position he’s in. 

The literal position. 

_This is ... not good._

He can hear fabric being moved, and the wet sounds of lube on skin. It’s not his lube. It’s definitely not his skin. Batman is snarling again, straining at his ropes. Frantic calculation hiccups crazily across Bane’s bulk and what that will mean for other things, all else being proportional. He squirms desperately, trying to get away from the hold on his neck, but it’s the theme of the day that he’d have better luck trying to shift the pyramids than move Bane. His dick is still stupidly enthusiastic about life, hanging heavy now between his legs; it’s achingly hard, throbbing in time with his pulse. 

A man with an erection can do some truly stupid things. John is a cop. He knows this for a fact. However, he’s also a man with an erection. 

He decides to keep talking.

“I’m not comfortable with this,” he says breathlessly through his teeth. “I’m not feeling like an equal partner in this relationship. Can we talk about our feelings for a second? Because I read once that feelings of sexual inadequacy can lead to this kind of prima donna--” 

 He loses his grip on smartassery as Bane presses against him, fabric and bare skin feverish and rough against his thighs and ass. For a moment, he thinks it’s Bane’s thigh against his. Then nerve endings report their findings, and synapses fire in anxious translation. Sweet fuck. The man is enormous. He’s going to split John apart, rip him to shreds like a paper bag. 

If he breathing speeds up any more, he’s going to hyperventilate. 

 _“The cub is still showing his teeth,”_ Bane says with approval. _“Come. Bring our guest, my brother. Let him watch his friend’s bravery.”_

There’s the scrape of metal and then a flutter of black. Batman. Still straining against the ropes, he is hauled by Barsad up off his knees and shoved into a chair. Ringside tickets, apparently. Box seats. John stares at him, meeting pupil-dark, hard eyes, and hopes that his face doesn’t show the panic he’s feeling. By the looks of Batman’s face, it is.

“I’m sorry, John,” Batman says.

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up,” John says unsteadily, feeling Bane’s weight slide up the back of his leg and across his ass cheek. He closes his eyes and clenches his hands. The important thing, really, the important thing is to not tense up. Right. Now try not thinking about pink elephants. “Sorry,” he thinks to gasp, as Bane positions himself at his burning entrance. “That was rude. Nothing personal, Bat--”

Did he think Bane’s fingers were big? They weren’t big. They were toothpicks. They were splinters of toothpicks. John chokes on a cry as Bane pushes slowly and deliberately in, stretching him impossibly wide around him. He would rear up under him, if the hand wasn’t pinning him to the table. 

It is agony, a brutal, yawning pain that sings through him like the fire of before, but nowhere near as pleasurable, nowhere near as hungry. This one sears as it goes, killing lust. A tattered fragment of insane thought babbles, _good to know, good to know_ , effective way to get rid of an erection is to get plowed up the ass by a telephone pole, not a treatment that will be making its way into Playboy anytime soon, _dear editor, the strangest thing happened; I swear I’ve never had this problem before, but--_

He is losing his mind again. Bane pauses, letting him -- _letting him --_ adjust to the enormity of this intrusion. He is only an inch in, maybe, just past the entrance. John pants desperately for air, almost deaf through the pounding of his heart. 

“John.” He can just barely hear Batman, his voice raised in urgent command. He opens his eyes dazedly to stare into those green eyes, intent and intense and fixed unblinking on his. “John. Concentrate on me. Don’t think about it. Just look at me.”

Bane moves, pressing a little further in. The burn grows as John is filled, strained to the limits around this immense violation. John sobs dryly. “Oh, _God_ ,” he gasps. “Please. Just-- Please. Shut _up_. _”_

That might be offense that darkens Batman’s face, or else the sight of something that John knows he won’t like, but it doesn’t matter because Bane is apparently bored of the conversation. John feels the hand let go of his neck. Opportunity. He tries to rear up, but there’s no escaping this. The hand settles on his hip again -- both of them close around his hips -- with bruising force; Bane doesn’t know his own strength, or maybe he does, because suddenly John is being dragged back and Bane is thrusting in hard, no more mister nice guy, no more adjustment. There isn’t enough lube in the world to make this anything other than what it is.

Nerves flare in terrified reaction, shrieking in anguish that overloads John’s brain and shreds the last vestiges of actual thought. Pain _sings_ , cresting high like the twin brother of pleasure, and crashes through him like a tidal wave.

John screams.

He can dimly hear Batman shouting, or maybe just talking really loudly in his ear, but he can’t figure out the shape of the words in between the agony that rocks through him, riding his pulse to reach every last inch of his body. His gasps aren’t dry now; he can feel the dampness spiking his eyelashes and tickling his cheeks as he shudders, every breath a rasp and a new lance of torture. 

 _“Tight_ ,” Bane says into his ear. He holds John in place easily, though he can’t struggle like this, stretched beyond imagining with every possible motion another adjustment in pain. 

 _“Fuck_ you,” John sobs raggedly. 

 _“Will you? Let us see,”_ Bane says, sounding pleased again. The big hands holding him in place pin him down on the table, and that terrible pressure inside shifts, beginning to pull out. 

He hasn’t had enough time to adjust to its presence, so its retreat is almost as bad as its entrance, scraping across frantic nerve endings to overload his senses again. This time he manages not to scream, but it’s a close call, and the sound that does make it out isn’t pretty. 

“John,” he hears again, fucking Batman who can’t exercise his right to silence. 

Bane presses him down again onto the table, flattening him, and he can feel the son-of-a-bitch getting ready behind him. He’s too dazed and frantic not to want to beg him not to do it again, but he’s a cop, dammit, and Bane is the enemy, and Batman is-- Batman is resting his head on the back of John’s shoulder, like he _wants_ to be touched at this particular point in time, like he wants to be touched ever again, and whispering, “John. John. You can do this. Concentrate on me. Listen to my voice.”

If he could deck Batman right now, he would. He would punch _everybody_. The entire world. Get them all in a row and go down the line, punch punch punch--

Bane thrusts in again, and this time the angle is -- John screams again, because this time the angle does something, makes it feel like he’s being cut open with scissors, but there’s something else there as well, a pressure on something that was already sensitive from those overactive fingers. It’s a little flare of pleasure in the middle of all this pain, almost indistinguishable. But it’s there, and Bane knows it, he can tell, _knows_ it. Because he laughs, reaching around him, to close his hand around John’s dick.

And it starts to stiffen again.

“ _No_ ,” John says in a desperate, strangled voice. “ _No_!”

Bane laughs again, feeling John’s cock waking up to join the party. He shifts again, like he’s measuring his progress by its hardness. And now it’s definitely there, that pressure on John’s prostate, hijacking his pleasure center and making everything complicated, because just the pain wasn’t bad enough, now his body has to get confused about the difference. He’s not a masochist (well, he’s a cop, so by definition he is, but not the kind that gets guest spots on Jerry Springer) so he doesn’t have the playbook. He can’t sort out the signals his body is getting.

Pain, he decides hazily, and latches on to that, because it’s bad enough to be violated like this, he refuses to _enjoy_ it. 

Batman is still talking, and actually it turns out that this is a good thing, because he can listen to that, the unending stream of meaningless sounds that are coming from a hero, the dark knight of Gotham, the man Gordon thinks is going to help save them. If he listens to that, he doesn’t have to hear the wet sounds as Bane pulls out again and then slams back in, making him spasm around a hoarse cry. If he concentrates on the hard curve of the cowl on his shoulder and the warm touch of skin beneath it, he doesn’t have to feel the charge of lust that stabs through him along with the burn, triggering that wave of need that he thought was killed but was apparently just waiting for Bane to officially invite it back again. 

It doesn’t start out as strongly as it ended, it has a ways to go yet, but he can feel the crest of it building higher with each thrust. His dick is stiffening, he can tell from the way it’s aching, but at least that’s under the table so Batman can’t see it.

Every stroke presses hard against that hysterical, sensitive spot inside him, sending a jolt of heat through him. Each surge of sensation feels more electric than the last, racing through his body before the aftershocks of the last one can finish dying away. He can’t keep ahead of them to suppress each after it comes, and Bane is doing it on purpose, scraping hard against it going in and doing it again when he pulls out.  

Bane’s hands are back on his hips again, controlling him as he figures out a steady rhythm, like the harmonics of an earthquake or the drag of the tides. He can’t break free of it, but at least it means he can’t rock back into it either.

Great, decides the smartass part of his brain that seems to have the same verbal diarrhea problem Batman has: cup half full moment.

His sounds, he realizes, are starting to be less about the pain and more about the pleasure. “Oh _God_ ,” he whimpers, halfway through a moan. 

 _“If you like,”_ says Bane, and his voice sounds different, deeper and more charged. _“But men need no assistance from divinity to do evil, or take such pleasure.”_

“Th-- this isn’t--” 

_“Your body tells me otherwise. You see what lies men tell even themselves? How can anything but evil come from such corruption?”_

“I am--” _help_ me “--I am _n-not_ hav-having a philo--” he chokes and writhes as Bane’s rhythm changes, shifting just a little faster. His mind was just starting to pull itself back together but now it tatters again, bits and pieces fragmenting off at the surging, swollen tide of sensation that is crashing higher and higher with each thrust. 

 _“A philosophical debate, darling boy? But what better time than when your true face is visible for all to see?”_ Bane asks, oh for Christ’s sake, John is surrounded by men who can’t just be the strong, silent type like him, and did Bane just call him ‘darling?’ His life, he can’t even--

Distantly, John notices that Batman’s voice is starting to get hoarse and raspy as well, not the Batman voice that he puts on in the cowl, but deepening. It’s starting to get breathless too, like the helpless staccato of his own breathing is exercising some sympathetic effect on him, too. “It’s okay, John,” Batman is saying. “It’s okay. You’re almost through this.”

The cowl shifts, the weight of Batman’s head lifting off his shoulder, and John realizes that if he moves, he’ll be able to see what’s happening. “D-don’t,” he manages to blurt out between Bane’s thrusts, humiliation burning hotly again in his face. He can see a flare of green eyes and closes his, so he can’t see their expression. 

He can’t make himself tell Batman _don’t look_ still, not because he’s embarrassed anymore (another lie, dammit, but if he can’t lie to himself now -- _fuck_ Baneand his honesty is the best policy philosophy -- when the hell can he?) but because telling him not to look would be admitting what’s happening to him out loud. 

It doesn’t matter though, because Batman seems to understand. “I won’t look,” he hears through the race of his pulse and his own ragged breathing. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of,” he hears more quietly.

This seems so unbelievably ridiculous that hysteria bubbles up in his throat, and now on top of everything else he’s trying not to laugh, because that’ll just make him sound like he’s not taking this seriously -- he’s not, he can’t, it’s too bizarre for words, so why hold it in. His dick is rock hard, and if Bane doesn’t finish soon, he’s going to drive John right over the edge. Humiliation won’t even begin to describe it. “Y-you ha-have ... no _idea_ ,” he gasps, between desperate mirth and sobs and small, throttled cries. 

Bane does. Bane has a very good idea. The man is a monster. He chuckles, the metallic thunder of the sound ringing in the mostly empty room. He releases John’s hips, and again John’s body betrays him by rocking his hips back into meet Bane’s next thrust. The terrorist settles himself forward to cover him, still maintaining his rhythm, and slides an arm under his chest and opposite shoulder to brace himself against the table. John is having the breath squeezed out of him by this weight, his hands are losing all feeling trapped between them, but that’s almost a secondary problem because Bane’s other hand is working his dick again.

This kind of coordination is inhuman, John decides somewhere in the middle of all the stars exploding in the fringes of his vision, and he’s really not laughing anymore. He changed his mind. None of this is funny. 

There’s practically nothing left in his brain but _want_ and _yes_ and _no_ and _give me_ , and his skin is so sensitive, even the air feels like it’s torturing him. Pleasure has started to wrap around itself again until it’s shaking hands with pain, he aches so much with need. He fights against it, against Bane, but the solidity of the man is inescapable and that’s good too, oh fuck, being able to strain against him and being overpowered and overmastered at every turn.

Finally, finally, Bane is starting to break down:  his rhythm’s picking up, his breath is starting to fray, the table is creaking under him where it’s taking on more of his weight. John clenches his teeth and struggles to hold on, clinging to Batman’s voice like it’s a rope that will keep him from drowning in this terrible, horrible, incredible thing that is happening, this catastrophe that is towering like a tidal wave ready to roll over him and sweep him away.

Batman’s voice is not enough.

He has one agonized, suspended second when he thinks, _How am I going to write this up in my report?_ and is proud of himself for being lucid at a time like this, and then the trembling crest of it crashes down, destroying him as it goes. He maybe cries out, he can’t tell, but the release is so intense, it deafens and blinds him. Every muscle tightens as he rides the wave in, feeling Bane’s hand milking him with sadistic determination. Ribbons of come splatter on the concrete floor under the table. Even if he’s looking there’s no way Batman can’t know what just happened.

If he weren't lying under Bane, a man who would totally take him up on the offer, and if he wasn't so blown out of his mind by quaking tremors of humiliating relief, he'd be thinking, _kill me now._

 _“Well done, boy_ ,” Bane says. _“And now it is my turn.”_

The rest of it is a blur. John doesn’t have a chance to throw out witty repartee, even if he felt like doing anything but stabbing Bane through the eye with a pitchfork. He wouldn’t have been able to anyway, because Bane’s weight is now making it almost impossible for him to get in enough air to talk.

Apparently the absolute annihilation of John’s pride and ability to look cool in front of Batman was all Bane was waiting for. His rhythm picks up, and so does the sheer violence of it, driving John’s hips into the edge of the table so hard, all he’s conscious of is the bar of bone-deep pain that’s killing even the thought of afterglow, and a desperate need for air. In fact, forget the pain. He can’t _breathe_. The world is getting all distant and black, like he’s looking through Batman’s cloak.

When Bane finally comes, it’s with a roar, like the challenge of a predator that’s brought down its kill. There’s something to be said for death by squashing. He can’t even feel it. All that’s left is the steady monologue of comforting words from Batman, and the errant wisp of thought that Bane is doing autoerotic asphyxiation _all wrong_.

And then he faints. Or maybe he dies. 

The fuck he cares.

 

:::

 

He wakes up naked.

Which, okay, is not what he expected. Either the waking up or the naked part, for the record. He’s a giant ball of pain, bruising here, bruising there, bruising everywhere, and there’s a sharp pinch in his ribs that makes him think something has cracked. And a burning sensation that ... his mind shies away from thoughts about that. In fact, his mind shies away from a lot of things, like where is he, why is he naked, and why does he feel like crap?

Someone has laid a blanket or something over him, because he can feel it shivering over him when he breathes. Which is nice of whoever it is. Really. Considerate.

He thinks about saying something about that, like, “Thank you for covering my nakedness,” but it occurs to him that he might be in some kind of dangerous situation (the pain is a giveaway on that front) so maybe being quiet would be the smart thing. Maybe pretending to be dead would be even better.

In fact, maybe actually being dead would be best. Because he really does hurt. A lot.

He sleepily thinks about that for a while, his eyes still closed, until he realizes there’s someone else in the room with him. Someone nearby. Someone not moving, but very warm, next to his thigh.

He opens his eyes quickly at that point, because for some reason the idea of someone near his ... never mind, but whatever, he’s naked but he’s got a blanket and he’s not afraid to use it. 

“Oh,” he says. “Batman,” he says. Then, bewildered, “What?” And since he’s on a roll with the monosyllabic communication, tacks on a breathless, “Ow.”

“It’s okay,” Batman says, except it’s Bruce now, he’s taken off the mask. There’s a black smear across his eyes where he’s wiped at whatever it is he uses to darken the skin there. It makes him look like a raccoon, but John’s naked on his bed, so it’s not like he’s in any position to judge.

Although, he realizes as he lets his gaze drift across the place, he’s actually back in solitary. Which means he’s naked on his own bed. So to speak. There’s the anatomically unlikely picture of the penis (although now that he thinks about it, it might actually be a picture of a duck, which would explain some things, like the beady little eyes) and the poorly-spelled graffiti, which he’s got memorized by now.

“They put you in solitary?” John asks, confused. “With me? Do they not get what solitary means?”

Bruce gives him a look that says this wasn’t the right thing to comment on, given all the other things he should maybe be paying attention to. For the first time, John realizes that the blanket over him is black. And thin. And Bruce is in the Batman outfit, but isn’t wearing the cape.

John is naked under Batman’s cape. There is so much that is wrong with that, he doesn’t even know where to start. It’s like he’s defiling the damn thing. He sits bolt upright at the realization, or tries to. Utter failure. He gets halfway up before the aches and pains consolidate into serious fucking agony, and even before Bruce dives forward to catch him, he’s already falling back with a mouthful of curses and sweat prickling across his forehead. Bruce’s hand under his head keeps him from smacking down too hard, and holds him half-suspended for a second -- Christ, the guy is strong -- before lowering him carefully to the bed.

Green eyes stare into his, worried. “Try not to move,” Bruce suggests. His voice is a little hoarse, not the Batman growl, but more like it’s been worn out from shouting. “You’ve taken ... a lot.”

There are all kinds of things in the world that John never wants to see. Worry directed at him by the man who is the Bat is ranked pretty high on the list. He feels himself flushing -- the cape fell down around his waist when he tried to sit up, so his chest is bare now, and it’s not like he’s modest or anything (growing up in an orphanage cures you of that pretty damn quick) but somehow, in front of Bruce-Batman -- he actually has to force himself not to pull the cape up around his ears. 

“W-why,” he says, then stops when his voice cracks. He clears his throat. “Why am I--”

Which is about the time that memory picks up a sledgehammer and clocks him upside the head. 

His face stiffens, the blood draining out of it. His heart starts racing. Maybe he makes a sound, maybe he doesn’t, but Bruce’s hand grips hard around his. He’s still wearing his gauntlets, so it’s leather that tightens in his hand, and that’s a good thing, because he doesn’t think he could handle skin touching him right now.

“It’s okay,” Bruce says again, quietly. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

John makes a wordless sound. That isn’t what was supposed to come out. He was going to say something. It was going to be something offhand and dismissive, to brush off the-- to let Bruce know it doesn’t matter, he’s a cop, he’s hard-coated in teflon, no need to worry about him. 

It can’t make its way past his throat.

Maybe Bruce can read minds. John wouldn’t put much past the Batman, who might be a flesh and blood man but is still, somewhere in a hidden corner of his childhood memories, a figure of fantasy and legend to an orphan who needed a hero. John closes his eyes hard over a sensory flashback, of Bane-- of Bane _touching_ him, and feels Bruce carefully drawing the cape back up over his chest to cover it. 

“Your clothes are gone,” Bruce says, while John clings to his hand like a goddamn child, gripping as hard as he can against the assault of memory. There’s no hint in his voice that the force of it hurts him. The gloved hand grips back, matching strength with strength in comfort rather than competition. “They were in shreds.”

“Th-they weren’t my color anyway,” John says jerkily, and it’s about as unconvincing an attempt as you can imagine. It even makes _him_ cringe, but it’s the best he’s got. 

Bruce says something, who knows what. John doesn’t catch it, because he’s too busy having certain things replayed for him by the appalling recall they trained him for in the Academy. Sight, smell, sound, feel, oh sweet Mother Mary, _feel...._

A hand pushes down on his chest. “ _John_ ,” he hears Bruce say sharply. He discovers that he’s straining up on the bed, muscles locked in a physical rejection of reality. Without the roar of rage to blunt the edge of terror, all he’s got left is panic on a grand scale, a heart-stopping, vein-popping concession stand snack to the rerun of his last few hours. Just being touched is making him want to curl up into a ball and scream.

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” he grinds out desperately through his teeth. “Don’t look at me, don’t touch me, don’t talk to me, don’t do _anything. Please. G-god--”_ his voice snaps in half across a sob. “ _Please._ ”

The hand on his chest disappears, but the one holding his doesn’t, mostly because John won’t let go of it, though he feels a tug like Bruce is trying to do what he wants. He grips even tighter to it. Not very consistent of him, but fuck consistent, fuck everything, he was just ra-- he was r-- he can’t even think the word. 

A distant corner of his mind, free of the maelstrom of fear and frantic fight or flight response, points out that this is a typical reaction for survivors of sexual trauma. It ticks down the psychology learned at the Academy, the RAINN numbers, the stages of reaction, the medical repercussions -- he wrestles with the panic and beats it back by counting down the numbers like a rosary, caging it with the dry, distancing litany of statistics and police responses. 

Miraculously, it turns out that Bruce is capable of following a simple request for quiet, after all. He lets John struggle with it in silence, blessed silence, just sitting and letting his hand be squeezed to death (fuck him, too, he’s Batman, he can just deal) while John gets his heartbeat to slow down, his breathing down to a manageable level, his trembling mostly under control. 

When he finally opens his eyes again, his eyelashes are spiky again, and he has to blink a lot, but at least he’s himself again. Mostly. Except not at all, because he was r-- but mostly he’s himself. Bruce is sitting on the edge of the bed, preternaturally still, like he’s a statue rather than a human being. Not looking at him. Not even breathing, as far as John can tell. It’s like he’s swapped himself out with a cardboard cutout.  

John swallows heavily. Thinks about testing his voice. Exhales a bit shakily instead, and then says, “Okay.” It sounds almost normal, except for the fact where it’s wobbling like a one-legged cocker spaniel, but whatever. “Okay,” he says again, and Bruce stirs, still not looking at him. A bit lamely, he tacks on, “Thanks. I’m sorry. I just needed a ... moment.”

Bruce tells the wall, “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“You can look at me now,” John thinks to add, and belatedly forces himself to release his stranglehold on Bruce’s hand. He’d be embarrassed about that, but there are so many things to be embarrassed about, wanting to hold Batman’s hand doesn’t even register on the list anymore. He’s gripped it so hard, his joints actually hurt trying to open enough to let it go. 

Bruce glances down at it, flexes his fingers, then focuses on John’s face. A bit too deliberately, like he’s having to make himself not look at other places, but it’ll do. “All right?”

John thinks about giving the glib answer, but why bother? He’s got no pride left. “No.”

Bruce nods, like this was the right answer. “You did everything right,” he says.

“This is where you tell me it wasn’t my fault,” John says with bitter amusement, although it isn’t really funny. His voice still isn’t very steady. “I didn’t stand a chance, the important thing is that I got out of it alive, now I have a funny story to tell my friends.”

Bruce pauses. “I wasn’t going to say that last one,” he says, but there’s a ghost of a smile in his eyes.

It helps, a bit. “I know the drill. I’ve done it enough times with--” He stalls over the word ‘victims,’ and swaps out, clumsily, “--on the job.” And now, from the other side, he wonders if the people he said it to thought he was as full of shit as he now realizes he was.

“It’s true, though. You fought. And you got out alive.”

“Great. That was the master plan. Get in, get r-- get beat up, get out alive. It was brilliant. Thought it up myself.”

Bruce hesitates again, looking at him with those pale, bright eyes, thinking -- who knows what. And then he says slowly, deliberately, “You were raped.”

John’s chest won’t expand for a second. Hearing the word, with all its attendant baggage and proof of violation, is like a fist to his solar plexus. At the same time, it’s a kind of relief as well. He manages to draw a shuddering breath. “I know,” he says, shaky again. “I was there.”

“You couldn’t have done anything about it,” Bruce says, and carefully, slowly, giving John plenty of time to reject the touch, reaches to rest his hand on his shoulder. There’s a hint of a smile in his face again, though it isn’t a happy one. “I’m Batman. Trust me when I say this.”

John stares up at him, thinking of all the asshole things he could say, and doesn’t say any of them. The hand on his shoulder is comforting. He wasn’t expecting it to be, but it is, like it comes with the promise that Batman’s got his back, even if all he can do at the moment is cover him with a cape and hold his hand when he needs to take a few seconds to get his shit back together.

“Okay?” Bruce says.

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Really?”

“No.”

Bruce nods again.

“What can I say,” John says roughly. “I’m a guy. If we were the kind of people who talked about our feelings, you wouldn’t be dressing up like a flying mouse, Bane wouldn’t be a murdering, raping terrorist prick, and I wouldn’t be naked and beat up in the world’s most fucked-up interpretation of solitary confinement.”

The smile is for real this time. It suits Bruce. Come to think of it, it’s the first time John has ever seen him with the expression. “I actually had a lot of therapy when I was younger.”

“Did it work?”

“Obviously,” Bruce says, deadpan. He opens his hand and offers it in a wordless invitation of assistance to help John up. After a moment’s uncertainty as to whether he’ll lose his shit again if he lets Bruce touch him again, he nods.

He does not lose his shit again.

It becomes pretty obvious right off the bat (hah) that there’s no way in hell he would’ve been able to sit up without help. An inventory of his injuries would be a waste of paper, even though John can’t really remember being hit more than the once. The split lip he got for that is the least of his problems. A couple of ribs are cracked for sure, he’s got a throbbing pain in his sternum, his hips are swollen and inflamed with the kind of bruising you usually need to get hit by a car in order to get, and then there’re the other things. The ... internal things. 

He can feel the last ones, even if he isn’t willing to do any self-checking, especially not with Bruce in the same room. He’s sweating by the time Bruce helps him up anyway, and when he sags back against support with a gasp of relief, it’s Bruce’s body that he’s drawn up against rather than the wall. 

The reason is that the wall is cold. Bruce is not. And John is naked, so cold hard things lose in favor of warm, not-as-hard things. Shut up. Also, it is Bruce’s idea. He’s the one who takes the brick, settling his back up against the wall so that John can rest against his shoulder. Bruce fusses with the cloak, tucking it carefully around him without ever actually touching John any more than he needs to. John is in too much discomfort and pain to worry about it, surprisingly, not to mention bothered by the fact that he seems to be, well, _clean_ , for lack of a better word. Though he’s not going to lift up the cloak and check, he’s got certain suspicions.  

“Did you--?” he asks, and finishes up the question by nodding down to the cloak-covered rest of him.

He can’t see Bruce’s face the way he’s sitting, but he can feel him nod, and hear the hesitation in his voice when he says, “You were unconscious. I wasn’t sure how badly hurt you were.” It’s an apology, even if it isn’t phrased like one. 

John thinks about that. The image of Batman washing him is surreal, but that’s getting to be par for the course. An idle thought wonders if he was still wearing the mask when he did it, because that he’d have loved to have gotten a picture of that (no, he wouldn’t) but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say thank you, but he doesn’t get hysterical about it either, so check out how well he’s dealing. Give the boy a gold star.

“What happened after I checked out?” he asks instead, not really wanting the answer but figuring he should ask.

He doesn’t like the way Bruce hesitates again, like he’s trying to figure out what arrangement of words will be least likely to freak him out. “Bane left,” Bruce says at last. “He got called away.”

“And?”

“And he’ll be back.”

Of course he will. “And?”

Bruce shifts uncomfortably. His armor isn’t as hard as the brick, yes, but it’s not soft, either. It’s a bit like leaning against a rally car. “And he’ll force me to make a decision.”

“What decision’s that?” John asks. He’s got an idea. The fact that this conversation is like prying teeth out of an alligator is not helping matters. Was Batman like this with Gordon, all those years ago? He has whole new respect for the length of Gordon’s fuse. “Does it have something to do with a bullet to the brain?” 

Bruce says nothing. 

Fucking insult added to injury. Like Bane couldn’t kill him first, and _then_ get his rocks off. Terrorists are such inconsiderate bastards. “Well, that one’s easy. Batman’s way more useful to Gotham alive than I am.” He’s pleased by how steady his voice is. 

“That’s won’t be the decision,” Bruce says quietly. “It’ll be me forcing you to-- it’ll be me taking my turn with you, or a bullet through your brain.”

John stiffens. “Oh,” he says. So much for steady. 

Bruce does an encore of the say nothing variety.

John swallows heavily, and closes his hands into fists to dig his nails into his palms. The sharpness of the pain helps keep the trembling at bay. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to try to get us out of this.”

“Good plan.”

“But if it comes down to it ... I can’t let you die if I can prevent it.”

“Well, fuck. Aren’t you a real pal,” John says after a long moment. It sounds more vicious than he means it to, but he is irrationally pissed. No, take off the ‘ir’ part. He is rationally, reasonably, sensibly pissed. And scared. Pissed is better. He decides to go with that. “So these are my choices. Bullet to the brain, or get raped again. I don’t suppose he’d consider cake or death, instead?”

Bruce doesn’t respond to that. Apparently, he didn’t spend his eight years off-duty getting productively acquainted with British transvestites.

“For the record, if you touch me, I’ll punch you,” John says.

“For the record, I’ll deserve it,” Bruce says a bit sadly. “But it won’t change anything.”

And that’s that. Because even if he was healthy and at his best, there’s no way in hell Detective John Blake stands a chance against Batman. Just like he didn’t stand a chance against Bane. Christ, why does Gordon even keep him around? He’s fucking useless. The Commissioner would have better luck painting a hamster blue and giving it a gun.

Bruce stirs behind him, and John feels him shift his position. “I don’t want to force you,” Bruce says, his breath tickling John’s ear.

“That makes two of us, then, because I don’t want to be raped. Again,” John says in a hard voice. 

Bruce shifts again. Gloved hands close around John’s upper arms, and he stiffens even more. “I’m not Bane,” Bruce says, rearranging himself in some way that makes John fall back a little. 

John’s turn to give him the silent treatment. He throws in an extra scoop of hostility, because he’s got enough to spare. Never mind that he’s not being fair. Fair is another one of those things that can go get fucked, along with honesty and consistency and 

Bruce kisses him.

For the record, this is not how the police manual says you should treat rape victims.

John is too startled to react. It’s a chaste kiss, the touch of chapped lips on his, tentative, like they’re not quite sure what they’re doing there. He stares. Bruce’s eyes are open, and he’s got a look on his face like he’s a little worried that John is going to overreact, which is the smart thing to worry about. But John’s fists unclench, because he’s just too taken aback to--

He’s being kissed by Batman. 

what.

Bruce pulls away to study him, his eyes searching John’s face for any kind of reaction beyond the one he’s having, which is mostly a suspended state of disbelief. He can’t even be pissed anymore, he’s too bewildered. There’s probably things that he should say, like, _did you get hit on the head?_ or _are you out of your fucking mind?_ or maybe even, _I’m going to stab you through the eye with a salad fork_ , but he can’t scrape together enough coherent thought to say any of them. 

Silence is assent in Batspeak, apparently, because Bruce lowers his head again -- John watches it happen in slow motion, absolutely baffled -- and kisses him again. 

And this time it isn’t chaste. 

This time there’s a tongue flicking across his lips, coaxing them apart, then teasing his teeth until they part, too. This time there’s the taste of coffee and sugar, moisture and heat, burning across his split lip until it tingles pleasantly. This time there’s the feel of gloved fingers cradling his head, supporting him with gentleness and astonishing strength, and the small sound of Bruce murmuring some word into his mouth, it might be his name, it might not be anything at all. 

This time there’s John kissing him back, feeling the fear really recede for the first time since he woke up into this horrible new world of _after_ , absolutely certain that there’s ugliness ahead but maybe there’s a chance there’s something else there as well.

It might be a few minutes, it might be a few hours, but eventually Bruce pulls back. John’s breathing is ragged, more than it should be after what was really just a kiss, okay, maybe a capital-K-Kiss, the man did not waste his time as Gotham’s leading philanderer, he could teach master classes, but still. He feels a twinge of satisfaction in the fact that Bruce’s breathing isn’t much steadier. 

They stare at each other, both of them, not entirely sure what just happened but both a bit flustered, and both a bit intrigued.

"Um," John says hoarsely, uncertain what to do next.

“Bane can’t do that,” Bruce says, his eyes dark and intent.

So John punches him. 

(What? He deserves it.)

It’s not a very good punch. He’s not in any shape or position to make it effective. But Bruce lets him land it on his chin, which is, shit, really hard, and then smiles down at him (the prick) because somehow John is on his back again. 

“I’ll get us out of this,” Bruce says, gently tucking the cape around him again, careful not to touch him any more than he needs to. Then he rests a gloved hand over John’s heart, which is absolutely not necessary.

John believes him, because he’s the goddamn Batman. “Okay,” he says, and lets the hand stay where it is. 

Because he’s Bruce Wayne.

 

 

 


End file.
